Snow
by j-orbanski
Summary: John and Sherlock's separate perspectives and opinions about snow from childhood and the present. Written for a 100 prompts in 200 days challenge.  Rating: PG, Pairing: none, Sherlock / John friendship.


**067.)** Snow

**Author:** Jordan

**Disclaimer:** Only just playing around with the characters for my own personal enjoyment

**Notes:** Written for **sherlock100 **and my own personal **100 prompts in 200 days challenge.**

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John had always hated snow, ever since he was a little boy.

The way it crept over his shoes, into his socks, and then seeped into his bones always made him long for spring. While the other children played in the snow, making snow angels, having snowball fights, and making forts, John stayed inside in his favorite jumper and favorite pair of flannel pants.

Harry always loved to tease her younger brother about his hatred of snow, and loved to throw him into snow banks whenever she could. She loved to watch him flail his limbs as he sank into the cold powder and then would pretend to help him up, only to knock him back down again. He would always run straight home to their mother, tattling on his sister, but she would always wave it off before taking another sip of her gin and tonic.

Although he hated snow, John wished for snow days just like every other school-age child. He didn't wish to be off so he could play in the snow – he wanted the day off so he could stay indoors, warm and dry, make himself a cuppa, and keep cosy as the other children his age played until they became human icicles.

But if there were ever too much snow for his liking, and not a single chance of a snow day, he knew he could always lie and said he had a headache and be able to stay home, warm in bed. Their mother never paid too much attention to them; she was always too busy nursing another gin and tonic, rum and coke, or vodka gimlet.

He loved taking advantage of this during the winter – he was always either ahead or on-track with his studies no matter how many absences he seemed to have. Their father wanted to take him to a doctor with all of the "headaches" he'd been having, but their mother always forgot to make the appointment, which John was grateful for.

Leaving the house meant trekking through the cold, through the brown-treaded slush, and over patches of ice which always scared him: that feeling of skidding uncontrollably over a small patch of ice, his heart catching and rising into his throat for a split moment before regaining traction once again.

Snow meant ice, ice meant falling, and John hated nothing more than falling flat onto his back on hard concrete.

If there was one season John Watson still wanted to skip as a grown man in his mid-30s, it was winter.

As soon as the holiday season ended after the first days of the new year, everything became dull, grey, and miserable once again. He wished there was such a thing as snow days for work – but now he was an adult and had to have responsibilities of going to work every single day, no matter what the weather was. He couldn't lie to his boss like he once lied to his mother, God rest her soul.

It was days when the snow kept falling hour after hour that it made him miss Afghanistan. He never thought he would miss the blood-soaked deserts of the war zone, but that's how much he despised the season.

Sherlock had always loved snow, ever since he was a little boy.

He had always wondered how rain droplets froze and turned into individual masterpieces, never one alike. No matter how many books he read, he still thought he was missing something – why couldn't they be the same? How did they know that each snowflake was unique? Are they still looking at every snowflake they can to see that it doesn't have a matching partner?

He had gone so far as to lug Mycroft's microscope outside to begin a chart of snowflakes, but his plan had failed within two minutes when Mycroft stole his scientific equipment back.

He couldn't wait until winter began – he watched the weather forecasts every single night before bed, hoping for snowfall.

When it did snow, Sherlock would spend all day outside, bundled up in as may layers as his mother could put on him while still having movement in his limbs. She made him come back in for lunch and tea, and as soon as it became dark out, he was to come back in within the hour. It was one of Sherlock's favorite things about being homeschooled. As long as he completed his lessons, he could spend all day outside.

Despite acting like a normal child, wishing for snow, staying outside until he became a human icicle – he wasn't one to make snow angels, have snowball fights, or build forts.

He ran experiments in the snowfall – how sometimes it fell in clumps of many flakes stuck together, sometimes he looked at individual flakes themselves, and sometimes he even sketched out their designs before they melted on his coat. He opened his mouth and waited for snowflakes to fall on his tongue – would they ever taste like something other than water? Why would some snow pack more easily than other snow? Was it denser? Was there a higher water concentration within the flakes or even within the atmosphere?

If there was one season that Sherlock Holmes wanted to be year-round as a grown man in his mid-30s, it was winter.

As soon as the first snow fell, he was outside experimenting. And although now he didn't have a large garden like at home for his own personal use, he used what little room he had.

It was well-known to John now that during the winter, if Sherlock wasn't indoors experimenting or out on a case, he was outside becoming frozen to the very bone, measuring snowfall, looking at flakes, and comparing different slush colors around the city.

The flat's thermostat was usually set to arctic tundra while beakers of snow covered the kitchen table and littered the inside of the freezer.

John sat in the living room, bundled up in his favorite jumper and warmest flannel pants, watching television, his tea quickly turning into slush itself, when Sherlock came bounding in the room, his cheeks rosy and his curls covered in slowly melting snowflakes.

John sighed. It was snowing again.


End file.
